What’s your road, human? Where ya goin’ frizz-out sparkler on the van or off? Ya feel OK institutional bang heads? Jump in… … The van seduces us, its effect of freedom fighters’ the good fight. She took me in Ulamata did. We travel out of our heart and rock and roll mild terror Chuck Berry riffs. The road, the mountain, the tree, these images throw themselves into our imagination. Captain freebirds’ pillbox with energy shots mood. We need movement, change, impermanence is at our core kernel mine eyes have seen. A continuous response to the environment come to the earth my old pyramids, land of a thousand worlds forced to question itself.
The search for one’s own image messy tone ramblin’ levi’s… Thinking up our own lives bouncy blues, creating our lives from a reaction to our surroundings sometimes bastard religions, our view of it is motor city Detroit bodies stoked. A possible collective unconscious like Patti primitive and everybody is everything. Thus all things are equal, important and unimportant at the same time. Paranoia, dope, guns and fucking with the image and the word, a universal virus that involves us as their counter-culture content.
Listen to the world, all of it, done kicked ‘em out, the classical and the metal, the field of life colossal tears, surgery 1968 sonic words at play doc ripper MD… from east to west love and die cruel world up and down lava-lamp-longhair the art drips.
How about the echo? A repetition 3 for a buck Goldschlager shots oh lords. The sound travels back like a hypnotized boomerang but slightly different than the original shady wartime. Echo echo, echo echo… sound distorted, a psychedelic yo-yo’s reaction to a square note, the speed of sound that changes action and a shovel. The speed of cheetah-thought giddy-up Milwaukee, Portland, Minneapolis, Astoria, Sheboygan.
All comes back to the road my friend totally bohemes driver and the thief blacktop. Wanna go for a ride horses gallop? Listen to the head and the heart dirthead shames, the movement of everything together like a well-oiled machine mean and ugly revolution times. Prepare the gears… One hundred mile an hour don’t lose that number six-popper ideas and emotion and body pieced together adrenaline rush but keep it under control that metal-punks-abide groove-mothers and metal tonnage of creeping death and tire friction to the roads of freedom and death-get-bent-antichrist in the end. The end is always closer, like the word goodbye. Exit is guaranteed bohdisattvas.